In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

embarrassed than mad when I caught him.”
    Cill looked out, half profile, face bright with laughter.
    There were other photos around the room, around the loft, as in his office at U-Play. But those captured the group, or various parts of it. This was only Cill, and obviously his private memory, or fantasy.
    “Do you want me to take it in, sir?”
    “No.” She handed it back. “Leave it.”
    She finished her tour, filed her impressions.
    Unlike Cill, Benny wasn’t a loner. He kept a replica droid, and a pet. A talking pet. Things for company and conversation. Not as tidy as either Var or Bart. A brooder, she concluded, thinking of the empty beer bottles.
    Before she left, she walked to the window. From the angle she could see Cill’s building, pick out her windows.
    What was it like? she wondered. And what did it do to a man who could stand here and look out and see the woman he loved, night after night?
    Both sad and mad, Peabody had said, and Eve thought, yes, that was just about right.

16
     
     
     
    E ve split off from Peabody, sending her partner back to Cill’s to work with the search team while she divided her time between the other two apartments.
    The problem was, as she saw it, what they looked for and hoped to find would be buried in electronics. It put her at a disadvantage.
    “There’s something to find,” Feeney told her, “we’ll find it sooner or later.”
    “It’s the later that sticks in me.”
    “You’re not showing much faith in me and my boys.”
    “Feeney, I’m putting all my faith in you and your boys.” Hands on her hips, she did a circle around Benny’s home office. “These three live and breathe e-air. When it comes to outside interests they still wind back to it. And according to Roarke, they’re exceptional.”
    “They ain’t hacks.”
    She pointed a finger. “Why not? It’s tempting, isn’t it, almost irresistible to hack when you’re just that good. It’s another kind of game. You’re not going to tell me you’ve never poked your finger in that pie.”
    He smiled. “I’m a duly authorized officer of the NYPSD. Hacking’s a crime. Hypothetically, theoretically, and if you ever repeat this you’re a lying SOB, it could be experimental-type hacking keeps the gears oiled.”
    “And a group of geeks, with exceptional skills, playing games all damn day and night, would likely experiment. If they, or one of them wanted to take it a little further—keep an eye on the innards of competitors say—unregistered equipment would be handy, and damn near essential.”
    “Adds a nice layer of control and security,” he agreed. “It’ll cost, but they could afford it. Hell, this lot could probably build their own with spare parts. Everything in this place, and everything at U-Play HQ is properly registered.”
    “Yeah, and I’ve been through each apartment twice now. If any of them have a hidden room it’s in another dimension. Off-site maybe, but still in the area.” Hands on hips, she turned another circle. “They keep everything close.”
    “If they, or one of them, has a hidey-hole for unregistered, that would be the place they’d do the hacking. Just follows.”
    “And where you’d work up the outline, the scenario for murder. Where you’d play the game.”
    Another angle, she thought, another line to tug. But first she drove back to U-Play and Bart Minnock’s memorial.
    Full house, she noted, and glanced at the screens where a montage of Bart’s life played out. She heard his voice over the voices of those who’d come to pay respect, and to mourn. Media interviews, cons where he’d given seminars, holiday trips, parties. Moments, big and small, of his life, she thought, spliced together.
    Food and flowers, as much staples of a memorial as the dead, spread out in careful and creative displays. Simple food, simple flowers, she noted, along with self-serve fizzy bars.
    She heard as much laughter as tears as she wound her way through to offer condolences to her victim’s parents.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Minnock, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
    “Lieutenant Dallas.” The woman who’d passed her eyes, the shape of her mouth, onto her son gripped Eve’s hand. “Thank you for coming. Do you . . . this isn’t the time to ask if . . .”
    “Your son has all my attention, and the determination of the NYPSD to bring his killer to justice.”
    “His life was just beginning,” Bart’s father said.
    “I’ve gotten to know